There are so many things I wish to tell you and for some reason, I feel I have run out of words today, at least the words that carry the weight of my thoughts at this moment.
My father would always tell me, “When you do not know how to tell a story, start at the beginning.” So the story of the The Indian Bibliophile started when on this day last year, my colleague and my full-time-nonsense-tolerating friend cajoled me into opening this blog. And now, here I am, wiser and stupider over the passage of 365 days, scribbling something she knows nothing about in this letter.
Stilted winter sunlight, the scent of old books, the touch of a warm cup of tea on your lips, the feel of newly-worn socks, and the sound of words—The Indian Bibliophile began as a home to all these images wrapped into one concoction of imperfection a year ago. Perhaps it began with my desire for a shelter, or perhaps it started because I wanted to scribble witless sweet-nothings for this boy I had once loved. Winter does make you believe in love and her thousand possibilities, does it not? Whatever it was, it grew into something more than shelter, something akin to home instead.
There would be words of appreciation for the poems I scribbled in the beginning, even so I could not help but believe that something lacked in them, as if the very soul of the words had long since bid adieu and now only the bittersweet lull of their sounds remained. And in search of their souls, I had traveled miles upon the meandering roads of the city that I had once loved, and now grown to un-love. But as time passed, and as is wont to Time himself, the words came by and the words went by, until the soul became a part of me, and inked only to bleed in bits through whatever I tried writing.
It was personal, this blog has always been so. Some held the memories of a love story that could only happen in another reality, while the others sheltered the fragile embers of a has-been. Whatever it was, it carries the scent of me, meager and unwound as it is, in this constructed and deconstructed world that we bear upon our shoulders as the weights of our respective realities.
They say it is nigh impossible, to open your doors and let the world view your elusive secrets when your blog is a reflection of the words you would often scribble only in the dark envelops of the nights. Yet melancholia teaches you, does it not? That whatever you hold as your own never truly belongs to you in the end. There is no I, nothing is about you, and your words are here to be given, until only they stay even after you have long since turned to dust.
So why does this sentimental, and somewhat childish, need to possess them still remain? Why is there still an itch to be answered, to be appreciated, to be needed, to be wanted, to be adored enough, so that my desire of acceptance is satiated in one form or the other? Because this is not just “my” blog, this is also an impression of the woman I have tried to become.
The Indian Bibliophile is not just me, or you, or the words between us. It does not comprise of the time it took to come to the crossroad where I can pen something that unravels so much of me that I now only have my meager hands to cover whatever I still wish to remain unseen. Whatever it is, it is a story nonetheless. And I promise, this one is just beginning.
So I thank you for reading my words, I thank you for loving my words, and I thank you for piecing me together until the woman I was on December 2016 now only stands as an unrecognizable poltergeist somewhere in the precipice of the past and present.
So I go on, somewhere in the recess between two consecutive waves, in a land where strangers become lovers, and lovers become strangers, until I reach the shores of another year once again.
Isn’t it strange, that we only have a handful of memories as father and daughter, and a thousand more as friends? I am sitting here, staring at a blank word document, as I scribble these words in Calibri, because of course, writers write in Calibri and add an extra dollop of esoteric gravitas with it.
Perhaps it was time, perhaps fate, maybe it was sheer bad luck, whoever knows? But by the time you came home, I was already seventeen, a woman, a little chipped at the corners, but still standing.
Of the handful of memories I still have of us as being family, my favorites are fortunately still existing somewhere in the celluloid tapes inside a handy-cam cassette. I remember your years in Kosovo, how every three months you would send us a bunch of cassettes, then a privilege really, to own a handy-cam and a Whirlpool microwave, the latter still functioning in our dysfunctional family kitchen in a miraculous manner, and how Ma, my sister and I would sit, cooped up in front of the dilapidated television set, after cautiously connecting the wires of the two machines.
I remember your voice, still distant and unfamiliar, as if the voice of a guest we would often wait for, from a time when your appearance at home meant closed books, the utter rejection to study and eating the most delectable meals that Mom cooked, a time when it meant that the clock was not set at 10 PM sharp to go to sleep.
I remember how you had shown me the Parthenon for the first time through your eyes, how the statue of Athena resembled Durga, and how you were so desperate to show me the similarities with that tiny little video camera. I remember when you had visited the ice museum, and said that the father polar bear was embracing the child bear, just like you would often embrace me. And I had been young, so very young, that I had not realized your voice breaking a little, I had not realized you had been heartbroken, and I had only basked in the happiness, foolishly, of being the center of attention instead of my sister.
And then you came home, came home to your family, your visit did not beget a festival, a birthday, a grand celebration, because why celebrate the homecoming of family? Why, indeed. I was fifteen, the first time I had been so angry and disappointed at you. It had been a trivial reason, really. Something about you not being around on my birthday at a town where you were then posted. And I had been sad, a little distant, and unhappy even at times, cuddling mongrels in your bungalow, when you had sent the biggest rohu I had ever seen. A fish! A fish, because you knew I was really a kitten with mangy little claws and I could only be calmed by the tastiest fish in the river. I remember you coming home at 11:45 that night, just 15 minutes until Christmas would set in, and I had not noticed how exhausted you had been, as I finally decided to cut my birthday cake in your presence.
But one evening, somewhere between eighteen and nineteen, you had found me broken, crying, wallowing into depression little by little, and cried with me. And perhaps, on that evening between eighteen and nineteen, we became friends, as we crossed the threshold of being father and daughter. I remember the words you always say, that I am your God-gifted child, and most of the times, I do not wish to believe a single word of it, but sometimes, just sometimes, it feels good to be considered a hero instead of a sub-plot, doesn’t it?
I have had many heartbreaks ever since, I have cried buckets over failed love, failed happy endings, failed bliss and failed identities, and you had embraced me tight, not even wanting to put my broken pieces back together, and been broken with me.
I am not your ideal daughter, far from it. I am unpredictable, irrational, impulsive, too headstrong and stubborn for my own good, too lost in the grand narratives of life to actually concentrate on a single person in life, until you shake sense into me, before sanity leaves the building again.
I have been troublesome, tiresome and a handful. Also, I promise you that I have no intention of being perfect in the near future either. But I am glad you do not try to fix me, I am glad you do not try to fit me into a box, I am glad you see me as the unsuitable wild child that I am, and I am glad you love me as the imperfect little goblin that I generally am prone to be.
I am glad, Dad. I am just glad to have you in this post-apocalyptic narrative that I am often forced to call my life. And I guess in my own way, I love you as much as you love me too.
Two half-broken people. Spouses, then lovers. A dying sun. The Ganges flowing with her majestic waves in front of them. And a projapoti biskut, the epynomous sugar-encrusted butterfly-shaped biscuit that is a faithful companion to a cup of piping hot milk tea for every Bangali in Calcutta. Somewhere in the ending sequences of Projapoti Biskut, you stumble across such a scene, and you cannot help but feel an inadequate happiness towards it.
Projapoti Biskut tells a simple story of an ordinary middle-class couple in Calcutta, who have lost their words along the flow of their marriage, their mundane life suddenly bombarded by the appearance of a Karthik idol at their gates.
Now what does the appearance of a Karthik idol mean? According to our colorful, and borderline lovably ridiculous, Bangali culture, Karthik is the son of Shiva and Parvati. His idols are left at the doorsteps of childless couples at times, and a ritual for his Pujo is often promised to give a boon that they shall soon conceive a child of their own. However, the appearance of the idol is a conflagration to a chain of irreversible changes that make the aforementioned couple question their identity in each others’ lives, in their own perspectives, and their relationship as well.
Projapoti Biskut is a modern man’s perspective of the extraordinary art of living an ordinary life, as seen from the eyes of director Anindya Chattopadhyay. Shot in interloping montages that overlap the sequential events of the film, Chattopadhyay spins an overtly simple story in the layers of his artful perception. From the imagery of the eponymous butterfly biscuit to the shots of North Calcutta, from train lines to the rusted gates of a house, the cinematography of the film boasts of creating the aura needed for this story, before it drives you into its intricacies.
However, that just where it begins, and sadly ends. Projapoti Biskut succeeds in being a beautiful film, as if watching a life in a series of forgotten photo albums, but somewhere, it lacks the heart to drive its point home. From poignant opinions about child adoption to women empowerment, the director tries to sew in every modernist thought into his story, unfortunately creating an utter hotchpotch of mixed messages.
Bangalis create a grand vegetable preparation with coconut, milk and vegetables, something called a Shuktoh. But the reason why Shuktoh is such a delight is because it enchants you with its perfect admixture of flavors that intermix and inject its tastes into the bland participating vegetables, the milk boiling to a beautiful dense broth in between.
Unfortunately, Projapoti Biskut is no Shuktoh. It is blessed with a plethora of subjects, but neither of them mix or intermix to create a savory homogeneous solution. Instead, every subject, every thought, stands out as a separate sentient concept that holds ground, at the cost of the characters that think of it.
Antar, the male protagonist, played by Aditya Sengupta, is an indecisive man beside his wife and the female lead, the headstrong Saon, played by Esha Saha. Their conflicting personalities were supposed to create a magical concoction of grandiose chemistry of epic proportions, however, reality was not that kind. Although an adorable factor in the storytelling, the monotony of their conflicts is predictable at best and monotonous at its most vulnerable. The use of a deux-ex-machina-like twist in the end does not help the plot in any way, and somewhere, even the characterization of the brave Saon falls short as the director forces her to fit into the box of Bangla film making aesthetics, in order to metamorphose the tepid housewife into the bold young woman she is portrayed to be in the last leg of the film. Singularly, however, both the actors try their best to sail true to themselves in the rather undulating plot sequencing, and that is something worthy of admiration, especially when both are making their debut with Projapoti Biskut.
In the end, Projapoti Biskut is a film worth watching, if not for anything, but to view the evolving perspectives in Bangla film direction, cinematography, music composing and storytelling in reference to all-encompassing subjects, from marriage to the conception of a child. After all, once the curtain falls, even the inadequacy of happiness is not enough to stop you from humming “Tomake Bujhina Priyo” to yourself, the magic of insufficient melancholia tuning the melodious rendition.
Somewhere in the wee hours of dawn, when the night melts into the first blues and saffrons of daylight, Birendra Krishna Bhadra starts his litany about the goddess’s arrival.
In a city that boasts so much life at every given moment of any day, listen to Bhadra’s magnanimous voice on any other day of the year, and you’ll feel no warmth, no goosebumps that wake something up in you, perhaps, you will feel nothing.
And then, come the morning of Mahalaya, the same voice arouses something from the very depths of your soul, and no matter how indifferent you are about Durga Pujo, you cannot help the warmth in your bones, the nostalgia tangible in innocent childhood memories, of waking up to the usually unnoticed radio being tuned to the right frequency by your father, or the one where the Bengali channels begin with a rather long show about how Devi Durga defeated the evil Mahisasur, how she became Mahisasurmardini.
The story is simple, really. Without bludgeoning you with a thousand details, it goes something on the following lines. A megalomaniac Asura (demon), Mahisasur, wanted nothing more than to rule Swarg (Heaven), Morto (Earth) and Patal (Underworld, not to be confused with Narak, which is Hell). Armed with his glorious ambition, he committed himself to years of Tapasya (meditation) towards the Lord and All-Father Brahma (think, Odin, the Norse god, only stupider and with far less insight about the future, although Brahma is the god of all that is existent and non-existent). Some information here, no one talks about the severe concentration capabilities of Mahisasur, but honestly, it deserves admiration, because, hell (pun intended), I for one cannot even concentrate in a two-hour exam.
So, finally, after years and years of austerities, in which Urvashi (the greatest dancer in the heavens) herself came down to seduce Mahisasur and break his concentration, albeit in a futile effort, Brahma finally came to the earthen soils to grant him a wish. And, of course, in spite of achieving infinite knowledge, Mahisasur jumped the gun and asked for a simple wish—“Make me immortal. No man or animal shall ever be able to slay me.”
Of course Brahma, being the brilliant philanthropist, granted him the wish, and soon the tyranny of Mahisasur began, as he went terrorizing the gods (Devata) and mortals alike and conquered the earth, the heavens and the underworld with his huge Asura army. Helpless and ousted of their home, the Devatas (something which, in every story of the Hindu myths, you will find the gods, especially Indra, of being) fled to Mount Kailash, where the dude of all gods, the ganja-smoking Shiva resides. Somehow breaking his tapasya (let’s be real, he was just high and tripping on the weed he was smoking), the gods begged the divine ascetic for a solution. Also an information here, although the Hindu pantheon consists of the Devatas, who are basically divine royalty, the real power lies in the trifecta: Brahma, Vishnu and Maheswar (Shiva).
So, in this divine conference, where Vishnu and Brahma also come by, and Parvati, Shiva’s wife, is also listening, they discuss about the tyranny of Mahisasur. Finally, Vishnu (who I suspect is the biological father of Tyrion Lannister for his brilliant diplomatic skills) finds a fatal loophole in the wish. You see, Mahisasur mentioned he cannot be killed by any man or animal, but he never said anything about a woman, right? Depend on Vishnu to target on the insidious sexism of most power-hungry folks in the Hindu myths. Using that, the divine trifecta channel their greatest energies into creating a source of ultimate feminine energy, something which is called Shakti, or power. Now, Shakti, in spite of being a source of infinite energy, cannot exist freely, or it shall ravage all known universe. So, Parvati becomes the savior of the day, and accepts this infinite energy source, and becomes the incarnation of Shakti, ergo Durga, herself.
In Sanskrit, Durga essentially means that which is invincible or inaccessible. However, the same can be interpreted as one who destroys all durgoti, which means danger or harm. Combining the two, Durga, the ten-handed, three-eyed, trident-wielding incarnation of Parvati, is a symbolic representation of goodness, infinite energy, feminine power, a universal mother and the lesser known concept of the state of motion. The last bit can be explained in the following way: Shiva, Parvati’s consort, is the state of asceticism, mysticism, stability, and rest, and on the flipside, Durga is the state of motion, of uncontrollable power and an All-Mother, hence, Maa Durga.
Now, armed with several weapons in her ten hands, from the Sudarshan Chakra of Vishnu to the Trident of Shiva, she mounts on her vahana, the king of the forests, a lion, and rides off to battle Mahisasur. She calls for war with Brahma’s conch and razes his armies first, destroying all that stands in her way with her mace, her sword, and her bow and arrows. Then she begins her one-on-one battle with Mahisasur, who of course underestimates her for her sex (how stupid can he really be?). This battle marks the perennial battle between good and evil, between light and dark, between day and night, between dharma and adharma, and rages until the end of Time. Durga battles the shape-shifting Mahisasur in several incarnations, from the darkness-removing Kali to the blood-consuming Chandi, and finally, she defeats him when she is in the form of Devi Durga, or Adi Shakti, the incarnation of light, as she stabs him in the heart with her trident (as Arya Stark would say, “Stick ’em with the pointy end”).
But the big question lies, what exactly is Mahalaya? The direct translation of the word from Sanskrit literally means grand arrival. On that note, Mahalaya is essentially the onset of the hour of the goddess, something called Devi Paksha, and the end of Pitri Paksha, the hour of the father. It is in this period of time that Durga Pujo occurs in the city, and Kolkata dresses herself up to welcome her beloved daughter home.
In spite of being considered the universal mother around India, West Bengal stands as the one exception to this rule, where the residents of Kolkata consider Durga as their daughter, who comes to visit her baaper bari (father’s home) with her adorable brood of children, Ganesh, Lakshmi, Saraswati and Karthik, from Kailash. And so, the celebrations begin, there are smiles stuck on the lips of the young and old, and food seems to overflow in every corner of the city.
But on this day, on Mahalaya, the final austerity of idol making is done, when the eyes of the goddess is drawn as Devi Paksha sets in, a ritual called Chakyudaan. In the heart of the city, at Kumortuli, where thousands of idols are made every year, several sculptors busily paint the three eyes of the goddess, their art and their passion pushing them to give life to an earthen mass of a woman.
And suddenly, the corny ads on the television and radio do not feel so out of place anymore, the silly GIFs sent on WhatsApp from your older family members bring a foolish smile on your lips, the videos that are shared and re-shared on Facebook does not make you think that they are spamming your newsfeed, the sound of dhaak seems like it belongs right here, here in the City of Joy, and the shopping bags filled with meters of shapeless cloth, from sarees to churidar pieces, do not feel so heavy in your arms. Suddenly, the world appears a bit more colorful, like seeing the city with rose-tinted eyes and in high definition, and everything is so very alive, like our home breathes in happiness.
Because, you see, you feel, and you know that she is here, and she will color your home, your soul, with smiles and delectable sweets and recipes. She will not judge if you steal a bit of sweetmeat from the platter, and she will definitely not rain hell upon your soul if you dare eat meat as the city celebrates in full galore. For we Bangalis, we don’t just pray to an unattainable goddess. Instead, we celebrate the homecoming of our beloved daughter. And right now, she is home, and so are you.
And in every turn, in every new love, in every new touch, I think some part of me has been searching for words, and forever shall.
Richard Linklater’s trilogy came into my life in such a way, when I had traveled across the lanes and by-lanes of the city, sitting for hours at cafes or by the banks of the city’s mud-worn river banks, it had come to me in silence, in fleeting nudges and somehow I had found myself engrossed, enthralled and enlivened in a matter of some ninety minutes.
Some movies you grow with, some movies come find you in their own time, and only a few grow with you. The Before trilogy consisted of those few movies that grew with me. Somewhere between watching and re-watching them in the wee hours of the morning, being entangled with Celine’s beautiful accented English and Jesse’s lovelorn eyes, I discovered the secrets of the universe.
The idea that even a day, even a moment, is enough to live a lifetime, when encumbered solely of words, mesmerized me. And perhaps I grew up romanticizing the very idea of it, that two days (Before Sunrise and Before Sunset) are enough to decide you want to live with someone till your very last breath, because all you need to do is take the leap.
My words, I realize, are unmeasured in this moment. It lacks the competence of a generally well-researched blog post, but the truth is that no matter how many times I try watching these three films as research, I fail miserably.
From the evening lights of Vienna to the sun-kissed Seine of Paris, I traveled every time with Jesse and Celine’s words, with their reticence, with their longing, with their cynicism, with their dreams.
And the best part of this trilogy is that it is not fictional, not really. It has the coarseness of mundane reality, it lacks the magic of falling momentarily in love with a person instead of their memories, and it profoundly glistens over the hesitation of two adults fearing to believe in happy endings again.
Before Sunrise was a prelude to the swansong of their love story, it still existed in the mystic land between dreams and reality, of two people connecting intimately without having to touch one another just yet, all for a snap of serendipity. But Before Sunset was rawer, grounded further into the heart of reality, almost lost like their souls, but still withstanding the barrages of cynicism. Yet it is Before Midnight that most lingers in my heart. A film where Linklater masterfully exposes the bare intricacies of the so-called happy endings, of failed loyalties and burgeoning insecurities.
I remember the moment when Celine talks about her fears, how she feels that now, in her fifties, if she sat by the same train to Vienna, Jesse would never come and speak to her, never realize the story that awaited them. And I knew that Linklater’s voice was clear, resounding, and hollowed by the truth that happy endings don’t really exist, that endings are just the oversimplifications of moments still left un-lived and unexplained.
Because Before Midnight thwarts you, it thwarts you to rethink the rose-tinted glasses you cannot stop wearing while watching the two preceding films. And those moments, when Celine confesses that she no longer loves Jesse, or the one where she acutely realizes how very different they are, and their togetherness is just a freakish absurdity, it makes me believe that crumbled realities are still art.
And love doesn’t really win in this love story, not by a far shot. Reality takes that victory cake, sometimes even at the cost of leaving a bittersweet aftertaste in your mouth. And it is not perfect, it is not the ending you wanted, it is not even something you wish to see, but believe me, you need to. I needed to, because even imperfections can be excruciatingly beautiful.
And this is me. This is you. This our reality. This is flawed. But for now, it is enough. Because in this moment, it is, “Still there. Still there,” until tomorrow, when it is “Gone.”
“The night was shadows and wind and the smell of a storm on the way, for crying until the tears were gone but the ache was left. A night for imagining that you could step out onto the windowsill and say hello to the dark, say I am sad and have the wind say I know. You could say I am alive and the trees would sigh back We are too. You could whisper I am alone and everything ends and the stars in the sky would answer We understand. Or maybe it’s ghosts telling you all these things, saying. We know, we’re alone too, we understand everything and nothing ends.”
Summerlost, Ally Condie
Somewhere in between the childlike innocence of a twelve-year-old’s narrative of loss and belonging, Ally Condie uses the voice of Cedar Lee to speak the above monologue, of storms and shadows and winds and stars in the night befriending you, holding you, and although the sense of loss is never truly gone, it is shared.
I started reading Summerlost last night, and soon, there was this bludgeoning ache inside of me to finish it by today. And even if the novel is set in the beautiful summer haze of Utah, far away from the hustles of overpopulated cities, when I closed the book after the last words, I couldn’t help but say hello to the gray gloom that it leaves behind, as if even in the mist of melancholy, loss can be perceived as something beautiful, tangible and bearable.
Summerlost is about a child’s journey to deal with loss, the absence of family, death and newly found friendship; it is about the hollowing gap that only the loss of a loved one can leave behind and the repercussions of the same.
The story begins when Cedar, along with her mother and younger brother Miles as they settle in the small town of Iron Creek, after the deaths of her father and youngest brother Ben, in the summer months at a new house while the Shakespearean Summerlost festival commences. Befriending the quirky “nerd-on-a-bike” Leo Bishop, the two friends start working in the concession stand, selling candies and programs to the visitors of the festival before the plays begin every evening.
Alongside, bonding over loss and silence, Cedar comes closer to her brother Miles, as the shadow of Ben looms overhead, while her borderline neurotic mother concocts newer schemes of revamping the house to deal with the loss of a child and her husband.
Ally Condie merges past with present like beads on a string as the novel pushes forward, using the fictional memory of the life and times of an actress who made it big in Hollywood before dying under mysterious circumstances. Initially used only as a recurring symbol of memory overlapping time lines, Lisette Chamberlain, the actress, slowly merges into the plot itself, as if her growth traced in the story is a mirror image to Cedar’s own character alignment throughout the events of the novel.
But what outshines every other factor in the novel is Condie’s lucidity in using everything, from trees to bad soap operas to turkey vultures and little things left on Cedar’s windowsill, as an imagery of loss and new beginnings. The juxtaposition of every symbol over the underlying sense of loss is not fleeting either, it persists across pages, sometimes only found as the most thwarting of one-liners and in others as a monologue that rises and dwindles rhythmically to the beat of its words, making Summerlost a book which is better left perceived rather than read word by word.
Another brilliant use of language is the characterization of Ben, the late youngest brother of Cedar, who throughout the book has been described with suffering from symptoms of autism, without actually mentioning the term itself. Contemporary young adult novels have used mental illness as an ongoing plot motif throughout the scale of the story, sometimes going in for page by page descriptions of the illness in depth. Yet, Condie uses the innocence of Cedar’s childlike narrative to describe an almost inscrutable disease in the simplest of terms. That itself is quite an achievement.
The only spot in the sun is the climactic end of the story, perhaps considered anti-climactic by many. However, I feel I must defend that too, because a novel like Summerlost doesn’t necessarily need a bombastic climax to weave together its plot as a whole. It should beat, drift and dwindle by her own terms, leaving only a promise to return after.
I enjoyed Summerlost thoroughly, and one might say it is one of the best books I have read this fall. It was a speedy read, yet also touched with the weight of soulful realizations and melancholic half-smiles in the flow of its words, leaving only an aftertaste of the memory of loss and future promises behind.
I like to think of you as a basket of starlight lilies. Sure, it is not the most beautiful flower that blooms prettily for her admirers. But so are you, with your half-scathing words that are lathered in sarcasm and served on a platter to fool the rest of the world.
I like to think of you as two hands holding when the sun is not looking at them anymore. I like to think of you, as the warmth that is enclosed in between those embracing palms, remains like the remnant of a story left unspoken. They are not sweat-kissed anymore, not like they were last afternoon when they laid, conjoined, each line, with its separate destination, congruent to the other, as if right there, in that very moment, they whispered to their destinies, fuck you.
I like to think of you as something akin to the bite-marks on my lower lip, the ones that I spend a lifetime giving to myself, when I catch you looking at me, as I try to look away, only hopelessly gazing at you once again.
What would they say? What would they say if they ever read my eyes, peeped into my thoughts, turned a blade through my heart and bled out its secrets?
Will they be ashamed?
Or more importantly, would you be ashamed?
I like to think of you as the interludes between Madonna serenading to some bearded Mexican fellow to ‘La Isla Bonita’, when those unknown instruments go tip-tap-tipper-tapper to the tone of something tangibly untouchable.
I like to think of you as someone I have touched, in some forgotten dream, perhaps in another lifetime, and now, I am just a ghost, retracing those old roads, hoping they would lead me to you. Who knows? Perhaps we will meet somewhere in between and lie to each other, saying they were crossroads, before walking away.
I like to think of you as a forbidden fruit, one that I have already tasted. But the gods were cruel. Their punishment was to make me forget how you did taste in the space between my lips and teeth, the warmth that I must have felt when the droplets of you trickled down onto the flesh below my teeth, warming my mouth, warming whatever was left of my soul.
I like to think of you as the secrets friends share when even the moon hides in the night. I like to think of as those secrets that the stars steal away from them, when those shining tricksters peep out of their cloudy caverns to listen to their words.
And I would keep counting, counting endlessly, until I remember all that I think of you, until you remember that maybe, just maybe, I like you to think of me too.
A wise woman once said, ‘Even being alone, it’s better than sitting next to a lover and feeling lonely,’ and I wouldn’t have discovered her words later in life, wouldn’t have been none the wiser if I hadn’t walked out of my home that day and watched a movie alone, forever igniting my passion for watching films by my lonesome.
On a drizzling day of February 2012, when the lovers strode past me, huddled in each others’ arms, towards the theaters, I had taken my cynical self for a movie, something that I would laugh about in the coming years, thinking how I had specifically used the term—“Dating Myself”—to describe that incident in future dinner-table conversations.
I had been bitter, and chewing the corner of lips, as is my habit and that of the characters that I end up writing about. Cursing every last of these oblivious fools, for they were oblivious to life and her many woes, for they were oblivious to the incumbent sadness of never really belonging anywhere.
Because I had never belonged to anyone, especially not to myself.
After all, even my self was just as temperamental as I was. When I tried to woo her, she had made it abundantly clear that she needed to be courted, loved, adored, and given a sense of belonging before she would let her secrets be known.
And so, when all hope was almost lost, I had taken my self to a date.
I had got myself a bucket of the most cheese-infused popcorn, not to mention the overpriced glass of Coca Cola.
Now that I think about it, I don’t remember the name of the movie I had watched that day. I am sure it must been something absolutely horrendous. But I do remember that I had decided to “date” myself on Valentine’s Day ‘12, as is the cliche of every stubborn heart in the world.
The results had been horrible—I had cried buckets over some character dying, I had spilled Coke on my new tee shirt, and I had wasted almost half a bucket of those tasteless abominations when I tried to get up from my seat at the end of the movie.
Soaked and poorer by five hundred bucks, I had returned home from the disaster, promising myself that I shall never let myself be tortured in this way.
Suffice to say, I never really kept my word.
As the years passed by, I befriended myself. And in turn, she showed me my loneliness could be turned into something akin to a pleasant solitude. She gave me words, filled me up with characters from books and movies, and strung up the emptiness of my otherwise silent world with music, even if I was quite disinclined towards the new addition.
Inside us is another person, another self that is waiting for you to only ask, just ask, to show themselves. And believe me, even if you drag them through the worst movie dates, the most tasteless of dinners, and even the worst of heartbreaks of your life, they will never abandon you. They will never say goodbye.
I see myself, I see her and I saw the empty unfurnished room inside my soul that had existed before she welcomed me in. It was a greyscale box of nothingness, with no heart and no memory to treasure in the darkest of times.
And together, we had colored it, painted it with a thousand more colors that the spectrum still hides from our eyes. We had furnished it with love, hope, even our sorrows, and our most secret of memories.
Sure, there were heartbreaks after. My self and I found ourselves decorating our home for guests who wouldn’t stay long enough to call themselves family. That they would sometimes leave with a piece of our furniture, stealing our memories, our hopes, perhaps even our belief that we could love again. And sometimes they would be kind, kind enough to leave a piece of themselves for our safekeeping, a memory, a memento of a scent, a voice, or a phantom touch. And she and I, we would caress it, keep it safe, locked inside the most secure corners of our room until they came to claim it again.
But for you to see all of this, you would have to know yourself first.
Know how beautiful, how wonderfully, heartbreakingly priceless you are.
I found that when I had taken myself to see some film in a lovelorn theater.
Perhaps you would find yourself in the midst of words, or perhaps in the unread corner of a storybook, or even in the melody between choruses of a song.
But that is your story to discover.
So find yourself.
And love yourself.
After all, you are your soulmate.
Hold onto yourself when the storms rage, when the sea seduces you to leave out the rest, when the mountains call you to leap forth, when life whispers your last goodbye.
Hold on, because your strong and fragile heart needs you.
Hold on, because that soul is yours to keep, to protect, and to cherish until it is time to depart, together.
When all is said and done, the sound of a name, the stray odour of a forgotten love story, the quiver in a pair of lips as the past thwarts in between, the littlest things begin to matter. You become a miniaturist.
So, hello Old Love,
I have come to your doorstep. I have some words to say. And perhaps I shouldn’t call you ‘love’, when the story I started was left unfinished. For a minute there, I want to take my pen, draw a line in between a page, make a border between you and me, and write the reasons why we remained unfinished.
For a minute, I want to do the ordinary thing. Because ordinariness is safe. Because predictability is home.
But when you a have a stark-white page that peers into your soul, sometimes, just sometimes, you want to do something extraordinary.
And so you scribble. You cut, you write, you bleed, you melt, and then, you become words. There is no red pen in the corner of my page anymore. I won’t correct my words. I won’t look back and see the mistakes I have made. After all, I never did that for you.
So let the words hold flaws. For even love, as beautiful as it often is, is flawed. I used to see that beauty. Now, I just remind myself to smile again.
There are the nights though, deep into the bosom of darkness, when I let myself fall a little more than I would let myself in the transparency of daytime.
When I would curl up in my bed, my pillow in my arms, and I would close my eyes. And I would see you. I would see us. Perhaps you and I would smile. Do the most ordinary things, sit for a breakfast, or I would throw a stray piece of paper at you, with its undiscovered trove of words inside. In my fantasies, there is always daylight. And maybe that is enough to make me remember that I have drifted a little further off from reality.
I would bleed tears after, or words instead. I have come to love the words more now. You see, when dawn cracks into the night, light filtering into my room, I like to be reminded it was never a dream.
Seasons change me the most, though.
Summer colours, the yellows and the oranges, the purple hues in the dying hearts of sunsets at riversides, and the slows kisses in winter, azure and purple playing with one another, until the sky itself becomes a confused infinity of grey. It is beautiful, oh so, beautiful, that it almost breaks my heart.
I lose my track often, as I do now. I write to you, and instead I lose myself in the montages of unmade memories. It is a new habit I have developed, to love things that are incomplete, unmade, forgotten, abandoned. Fallen leaves, crushed flowers, crumpled papers, broken quill nibs, I find a strange love for them, growing each day inside of me.
And in loving them, I, too, fall into pieces, brokenness and halfhearted remembrance lingering as effigies.
There should be an end here. According to the laws of words, I should scribble lies with ‘yours lovingly’ or ‘yours forever’. But I am mine, only mine. I collect all these fallen pieces of me, stick them with glue and watch them break away again. But there are still all mine.
So until I find some of me to share with you, in fantasy or in reality,